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by stillmadaboutpetra



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eye Trauma, Vore, a little bit. as a treat., its romantic :'), jaskier wants geralts eyeballs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26214826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: “Kitty eyes, me-ow,” a woman purrs to Geralt, raking her fingers quick as anything down his arms, pitchfork curling nails.“Woof,” Jaskier puffs into her ear, sliding tight and wide between her body and Geralt’s.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 66





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [limerental](https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/gifts).



Take the swords from his back, take the armor from his body, cloak the hair and bind it back - a man, all save his eyes. Snarling eyes. Gentle eyes. Flashing wheeling gold - witch’s brew poison eyes. Staring into the desert viper’s pebbled gaze. The cat-glint shriek of a reflection caught and shone back at you from the alleyway, the rafter, jolting shadows on the roofs. 

Lovely. Lovely eyes. 

Fine specimens.

Specimen. Geralt curls at the word. Piss and vinegar eyes, another witcher will say. 

“What a handsome thing you are,” Jaskier will crow to him, will croon and coo. He would sink his hands into the white feather of Geralt’s hair, tilt his head back - mouth at his browline and slip his tongue down to touch the thin skin of his sockets. Fluttering lashes, battle guard dustings of white white white, ghoulish and ghostly and not enough to keep the salt water taste of hunger from dripping from Jaskier’s mouth to his lovely - his lovely eyes.

“Kitty eyes, me-ow,” a woman purrs to Geralt, raking her fingers quick as anything down his arms, pitchfork curling nails. 

“Woof,” Jaskier puffs into her ear, sliding tight and wide between her body and Geralt’s. “Not today, fiend.”

“You’ve seen a fiend,” Geralt will whisper, head dropped low so his mouth brushes the fine hairs of Jaskier’s ear, tickling him like an earthquake. 

“And she’s seen a kitty.” Jaskier would bite his chin in churlish punishment for being admired so baselessly. “Kitty eyes. Absurd.”

“Don’t you think they’re pretty.” Geralt imitates him with a tilted face, a wide-eyed wince of surrender to inspection - oh Jaskier loves his own eyes, for they serve him, for they shine. But the magma burn of Geralt’s - something’s wrought in those eyes.

“Very.”

Geralt looks at Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier does not look from Geralt’s eyes. 

He likes pretty things. He likes to be pretty and he likes pretty things. He likes dark berries that he plucks as they walk, thorns snagging the cuffs of his sleeves. Rolling them, ripe-heavy, on his tongue for as long as he can manage, sometimes an hour, drooling around the shape. Geralt gathers handfuls and offers them like rare tokens, delighted by the silence Jaskier keeps pinched all day. The redness that slowly creeps darkly from behind his teeth to bruise his lips. Succulent silence. A succulent weight in his mouth. 

Geralt’s cock, that’s pretty. He doesn’t talk with that in his mouth either. Geralt hisses and holds the base of himself and watches, watches Jaskier’s mouth - his eyes drooped in a miserable pleasure, thick and dreamy. Jaskier likes to see those pillager-torch eyes flicker, gutter on the edge of orgasm - snuff out the flame of him in his mouth, spit it out again.

He's indulged after, allowed the romance of touching Geralt’s face. Holding the square solidness of his jaw in both hands - the neat cut of his thumbs traced and planted at the soft crinkled edge of Geralt’s eyes. Sometimes shut. Sometimes open. The skin so thin, the paleness blue with blood. The tiniest charming bite of a tear in the corner of his eyes if it was particularly good that night, if Jaskier took him with a particular gentleness that made the life gust out of Geralt, replaced with something newer, more buoyant and short lived. The open vulnerable splay of him when he let Jaskier curl nakedly around him, stroking him, a flightless bird careening on no current or zephyr - just flesh and blood and fluid. Grounded in the sturdy blight of his body.

And his lovely eyes, taking a sailor’s nightmare cast of morning red in certain candlelight, or a child’s perfect cloudless day - Geralt, not quite asleep, victim to Jaskier’s torments - laying gold coins he’s spat upon and shined atop his eyes. Slipping another into Geralt’s mouth - no no, Geralt doesn’t let him, but he might.

Jaskier kisses his sleeping eyelids. Licks the seam. Geralt pushes him off in the dark, a warning growl. Jaskier giggles, clutching him close.

“Darling, did I scare you?”

A long hard look. He squirms under the glare of those eyes. They pin his covetous mouth shut, drag down the impish eager twitching of his body, his immodest cock. Jaskier pretends to cover himself, to hide away. 

“Let me look,” Geralt orders, pretending to pry away Jaskier’s hands. The touch of sword rough fingers is impossibly light. Jaskier sucks in a breath and lunges, kissing Geralt, feigning blindness in the dark, licking his eyebrow, once, twice, licking along the glass curve of that wild wolven eye. Geralt blinks hard. 

They fuck slowly, Geralt barely moving because Jaskier won’t be jostled, not with his nose pressed to Geralt’s, not with their stares locked and sunken, shipwreck deep. 

Geralt wakes up again to Jaskier’s fingers on his face. 

“This is becoming a bad habit of yours,” he acknowledges, squinting through his confusion. Jaskier only retreats for a second before he’s back, closer than before Geralt’s eyes had flared to brilliant awakedness. He could never - he could never take them, could he? They’d lose their light, their luminosity. Was it blood-warmth that held them in such dragonheart glow? Could he keep them warm if he pressed them to his open veins and drowned them. If he opened an artery, pulled the skin thin and tight and bundled them inside himself -

Ah. Ah. He opens his mouth and kisses, sucking, at the corner of Geralt’s wary eye. 

“They’re so pretty,” Jaskier sighs, rocking into Geralt’s thigh as an afterthought. “I’d know them anywhere. I’d know them in the palm of my hand.”

Geralt lets Jaskier come on him, watching him, deliciously watching him through it. He rolls Jaskier over onto his back and fucks him, pinning him down with a hand. One hand. With the other, the tormentor, he covers his face, hides his eyes away.

“Don’t you dare. Look at me.”

“No.”

Jaskier claws at his face, tries to get up. Geralt fucks him into acceptance, rolls him over belly down, presses his face into the pillow so he nearly suffocates. He burns, seen, unseeing. 

“When you die,” Jaskier says, around the shape of a song in his hands, his fingers plucking at notes instead of - well - “what happens to your body.”

“I’ll likely be eaten.”

“What if it isn’t a monster?”

“I’ll be embarrassed if it’s not.”

“Do you get embarrassed?”

“I suppose I won’t ever know, as I’ll be dead when the moment comes.”

“I’ll be embarrassed for you, if that’s the case. A monster - ah, one big one? Eaten?” Was it one gulp? The beast didn’t know what it had swallowed. How Jaskier envies it. 

“Maybe.”

“The selkiemore had designs on you.”

“Things are soft on the inside. Vulnerable.”

“You Aard’d your way out- blew right out of its asshole, didn’t you?”

Geralt only laughs, eyes flashing in the light of his humor. Jaskier skips ten steps ahead to walk backwards, to keep him clearly in his line of vision. Nearly falls on his ass for it, but Geralt stays steady before him, an unmoved sun on a low horizon.

“Could I have them.”

It’s dark. But Geralt’s eyes glow faintly, just enough that Jaskier can see them move in his skull as he sifts through the shadows as his thoughts pace end to end in his head.

“Have what?”

“Them,” Jaskier whispers, enchanted. He waves a hand in the dark, passing it over Geralt’s face. Lays his palm over Geralt’s eyes like an executioner's mercy. The unseen killing blow.

“You don’t like blood and guts.”

“I’d make an exception. It’s not as if - my word, dearest, do you think I’d risk them by just ripping them out?”

“You can have them,” Geralt allows with a shrug, indifferent to the process of extraction Maybe he did think Jaskier would descend upon his remains with all the grace of maggots and rot. Would rush into the decay. He'd be dead - hopefully. Or perhaps - the half-vision of dying, promises to death and clutching on; Jaskier crouched over him, helpless to do anything but loot his remains, become a grave robber of that still living thing in him. “Try not to die fetching them.”

“Oh, you are so kind to me.” He means it. He does. 

Geralt stays up that night, watching him. Jaskier sleeps soundly. 

He’d be so gentle. He’d be as good with a little knife cutting them out as he is removing the shard of a talon that’d split from a raking claw and decided to live in Geralt’s forearm for the better part of an evening. Remove the skin. Cut around what needed to go. 

Some splinters need sucked from the point of origin. He could perhaps fit his mouth over the bone of the socket, poke his tongue in - ripe-heavy. The connective tissue. He could take those brilliant eyes into his mouth like the first gluttonous vulture at the feast, the gem morsels the victor’s fare - they would glow out from behind his smile. He’d hold them both there, treasure-hot. He’d stay silent and safekeeping. Would the body, naked, be knowable without these twin told secrets. They would purr behind Jaskier’s teeth, kitty-eyes. They would howl. He would keep them, drooling around them. He’d no more need for stories, just swallow and swallow around the vision of Geralt. He would make love to himself and stare into a mirror and watch himself be watched back, long after Geralt had left him.


End file.
